Storms Recurrent
by OfLoveAndChocolate
Summary: Amidst the chaos of the Bolton/Baratheon battle at Winterfell, a broken Sansa cannot bring herself to escape. When an unexpected victor emerges from the flames of combat, her choice proves wise. She begins to regain her true self under the care of an unexpected suitor. Very show-centric. Follows events of S5 EP7, "The Gift". Sansa POV. Slow Sansa/Stannis.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

 _Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

 _Help our daughters through this fray,_

 _Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

 _Teach us all a kinder way._

"Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy"

* * *

I should be running. Far and fast and down from the spiraling tower that imprisons me. I should be following Theon.

 _NO!_ My mind shouts against the mistake, no matter how internal. _Reek. That is his name. Do not forget his name._

Out into the storm he keeps bidding me, eyes wide and shining with something beyond the fear I've come to know in him. There is terror, oh yes, but there is also the gleam of another emotion. Something foolish. _Something he should have discarded long ago._

Hope.

There is no hope here, not anymore, not as there was in my youth. My home is a shell of Winterfell, gutted and burned and ridden with betrayal. The walls, once every semblance of strength and protection in my eyes, now trap me, encasing me in a tomb from which I will never leave. _When Ramsay finally grows bored of me, as Myranda threatened, will they have the decency to bury me outside these walls, in the vaults of my forebears?_ _Will they decide to lay me there?_ I could be the last Stark of Winterfell, finally reunited with my family.

A fantasy, I know, even as I dream it. My death is a wish which will never be granted that easily. I will suffer many years in this tower.

"Come, Sansa. You must come _now_ ," the creature coos again, trying to be comforting, I think. But he only manages to disgust me. His roiling, acrid appearance finally matches the murderer within. How could he believe I would ever follow him? The arrogant prince who burned my brothers, the coward who betrayed the family that loved him as one of their own?

"Get away!" I hiss, shuffling further into my corner, my ankle chain thumping loudly against the floor boards. I flinch at the sound. _You mustn't be too loud_ , I remind myself. Noise brings attention. My bastard Lord Husband wishes me to remain hidden, tucked away until the battle's end. Tucked away, and guarded by his Reek until he can return to us and revel in the Boltons' victory by stripping me of myself again. He is most vicious after the throes of victory.

Wind buffets the window pane, a hard, huffing gust of snow and ice. The storm has risen. I can feel its power thrumming through the wall at my back, whispering at me to remember. _Winter is coming…. winter is coming…_ The words are my only strength.

Reek's hand is still extended, his bottom lip now quivering in that way it often does. _At last afraid, it seems, but why?_ As much as I loathe him, cannot even bear the pretense of looking at him unless commanded to by Ramsay, it is impossible to ignore the strangeness of his actions. Perhaps it is a test, this beckoning me to come away, to run into the storm with him? How Ramsay loves to test me, to lure me into mistakes which are punishable.

"I'll go nowhere with _you_!" My ability to trust others left me long ago, blown away on the winter winds that both chill and bolster me.

"My Lady… _please_. I have the key!" He pulls a silver chain from beneath his rags, the key dangling and glinting in the firelight. "Let me _release_ you. I will help you."

His voice has risen to a plea, a desperate cry to be understood. But the emergence of the key and the sickening flicker of _want_ that flares up in me at the sight of it have steeled my suspicions. He has brought me back to the beginning, when I still believed a life-debt and a candle in a tower window could save me from my world of agony.

The old woman's body, flayed and glistening red, floats before me… the haunting reminder I can never manage to push away. Perhaps it is good such a gruesome reminder exists.

I decide once more. There is no truth in this creature: he is trying to destroy me with false hope. I pull my heavy chain towards me, gathering a loop between my shaking hands, preparing to strike.

Reek shuffles back immediately, hands retracting as if burned, the key disappearing as if it was never there to taunt me. The threat of pain has branded him so deeply that even my pathetic warning makes him flinch. He is no Ironborn prince.

 _And you are no longer a Stark either, not really. Not like this._

"Just leave me!" I nearly shout, heady with panic and confusion. I want him out of this room and far away. He can run into the storm himself, if that is what he truly wishes. But he will not pull me from my prison. He will not lead me into painful ruin.

" _Sansa_ …" he murmers, sounding more lost than me. "I thought… I thought, you wanted to _leave_? Why won't you _leave_?" He is on his knees before me, rocking back and forth, staring at the chain I have made a weapon.

"There is _no_ leaving. You know this. I know you have come here to _torture_ me!" I swing the chain out at him, not sure if I mean to hit or miss, but glad when he scurries back and whimpers. I continue forward, rising to my feet, breath heavy with fear and rage and exertion. _Get him out. Get him out!_

"If this is another trial – if Ramsay wants you to persuade me into deception – I hope he _hurts_ you for failing. I hope he peels you! I hope there is _less_ of you on the morrow!" I shriek as I bear down upon him, tears blurring my vision.

The chain clanks with my next heaving swing, thudding and coiling on the floor as I miss my target. My ankle is pulled taunt. I have run out of more slack to swing. But it does not matter; Reek is already opening the chamber's inner door and there is too much space between us to continue my attack. He slips behind the thick slab of wood, head peaking back into the room, eyes riveted on my own, gaping and glazed like those of a dying fish.

I have terrified him… and though I loathe myself for feeling it, there is an undeniable flash of triumph in my chest. There is power in pain, and I have felt the effects of the bitter end for far too long. Wielding such power gives me a sick sort of glee. _Perhaps I am truly meant to be the Bolton bastard's wife, enjoying such torments?_

Sinking to the floor, sweat caking my brow and tangling my auburn locks around me, I hiss, "Leave my sight, _betrayer_. You cannot save _anyone_ , not even yourself."

His eyes drop, submissive, broken in spirit once more, and the cruel words finally seem enough. A gust passes over me as the door closes. I let out a long sigh, pulling my knees to my chest, shaking from the terror of almost being mislead. Of nearly being pulled into a ruse. The outcomes of my life are absolute. I no longer have the luxury of changing my fate. I must remind myself of this constantly.

The fire crackles, dancing my meager shadow up against the far wall, making me appear much larger than I feel. Like a curled up dragon, or a kneeling giant. I am not that powerful though, not any longer. Perhaps not ever.

 _Has Jon ever seen giants at the wall?_ I vaguely wonder. Thoughts of Jon riddle my mind often, even as I push them away. But there is little left of me but my mind and its foolish inclinations to reminisce. Ramsay made a point to tell me: Jon is now Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. My closest living relative… though not so long ago I would have denied him that title. _How proud and cruel little Sansa Stark was then, avoiding the bastard of Winterfell, as her good mother instructed._ Arya never heeded mother's warnings, but I had. If I saw Jon now I would cling to him like the closest of kin, wrapping myself up in the comfort of his protection and familiarity. I think he would welcome me as well, despite our differences. His heart was always quick to forgive and forget. And he loved our father fiercely. We could share in that loss, drawing solace from one another.

The candles at my bedside are beginning to gutter, ushering in the night. I should sleep and gather my strength for Ramsay's return, for he will return. I have no doubt of House Bolton's advantage in the coming battle, not because my bastard husband finds immense pleasure in dissecting the weaknesses of Stannis Baratheon's army, but because of Winterfell itself. Even as a broken, beaten castle, my home can still withstand legions. My father and Old Nan told tales of past sieges with such reverence, that Winterfell took on an eternal, living quality to me and my young siblings. As if the walls could buffet attacks by shear will, winter snows strengthening them, blinding and freezing foes as they stumbled about outside.

I imagine the banners of Stannis Baratheon: his sigil, a rearing stag engulfed by that strange flaming heart, snapping on flags before the gates of my home, drowning in the white of this furious storm. I see the fire of his rumored red priestess flickering out in the face of such cold resistance. _They are foolish to even try._

My head finds the floor, knowing it will please Ramsay much more to find me sleeping here than in his bed, like the beaten direwolf I now am. But there is comfort to be found on the floor. A strange sense of connection, as if my former home and I are close once more. Lovers reunited, pressed close and hard, with little space between us. _Winter is coming…_ Is it the vibration coming through the floor boards that whispers the phrase? Or is it simply the drums booming outside, barely discernible above the roar of the wind? It does not matter. The deepness of night will end this war before it truly begins; the coming day will betray any remaining survivors. And my existence will resume, steady and terrible.

I can only pretend to be Sansa Stark in sleep, so I let myself go there. Much too quickly to discard the pains that splinter through me, or the bruises that cover me, or the fear that hovers over me like a constant ache, I slip into another, darker world.

The thrum of battle courses through me, and I'm sure, amidst the fog of incongruity and strangeness, that there is a herd of deer outside my window, down below in the court yard. They stampede and buck, throwing their proud heads about wildly, antlers blazing with flame. They are many, and they are fierce, but they do not frighten me. Somehow, I am sure they are here to save me.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

* * *

The fire in the hearth has died down low and the candles are out, yet I wake under burning light. Day has not come, of that I am sure. The light which blazes through the tower window is too warm, flaring golden and then lemony-yellow, with sharp moments of rising scarlet. The undulation of light moves in waves, licking and climbing further and further into the deep, inky night sky. It is frighteningly unnatural, how high the flames have risen.

 _Winterfell… it's on fire._

I scrambled up from the floor, heart hammering, my ankle throbbing and sore. _If they burn the castle, who will come for me?_ _Am I still interesting enough for Ramsay to save?_ Never before have I been so desperate for my tormentor. _No_ , reason argues, _Reek will come back_. Reek will release me with that glinting, tantalizing key. Ramsay will have charged him with my safety, no matter how dire the circumstances.

 _And if Reek fails me… well then, I should rejoice that my end is near._

But fire… My father often remarked on its horror; how it squeezed every measure of pain from a man before his death. How it was a slow, ugly affair to witness. Not at all swift and just, like a blow from his great sword, Ice.

I gather my chain, coiling it about my arm, and stumble to the window pane. There is so much panic and turmoil below, amidst the glare of fire, I have to blink and squint to discern what I am seeing. The main portcullis is splintered and aflame, that much is immediately apparent. A steady stream of riders, snow-laden and heavily clad in plate, ride into the inner yard, their movements rough and slashing. About them dance other men at arms, some caked heavily with white, others in Bolton black and crimson. All are engulfed in snow, the flurries masking them for brief, flickering moments and then revealing them in the flare of the yard's inner fire.

Those intense flames which made me believe I would be consumed now draw my eye, beckoning me to watch – even as I am desperate to discern the number of men below, to weigh the outcome of the battle – are strangely luminous and large. Nothing like the gathering fires I remembered from my youth, those huge, raucous meetings of kin and allies that centered around an enormous outdoor blaze. Those meetings were joyous, ancient affairs, meant to celebrate the unity of houses and the bounty of the summer season.

But this fire…

I can hardly bear to look directly at it, so glaring and fierce the pyre blazes, its inner core seeming more a solid body than a shifting column of light. At its edge I can discern a lone figure, cast black against the brilliance, arms whirling and gesturing at the flames, almost as if to command their rise and fall. It is easier to focus on that person, on that _woman_ I soon decide. Though slight of frame, she seems more present and threatening than most Lords, her hair flying wildly around her, whipping back and forth against the elements of heat and cold.

A white gust shudders against my window, blinding me momentarily. My eyes return to the woman, as if drawn beyond control, and I begin to notice a pattern: she _is_ directing the flames, pushing and pulling them away from their source, flicking them, almost casually, at the soldiers fighting around the yard. Many men are already ablaze, staggering away from her as they light, obviously screaming, though I cannot hear their cries. Some try to roll in the gathering snow drifts but it appears that the woman's fires cannot be quenched, even when drowned with icy buckets of water.

 _She is the Red Woman._ I feel dread in the realization, in seeing that she is true and real and not just another tale of wartime fantasy. _She burns those with king's blood; she practices dark sorcery._ Rumors abound, but the present situation seems to confirm all. There is something otherworldly about her, as if an intense, writhing power waits behind her, crouching and ready to strike when called.

An unexplainable certainty tells me Winterfell will not burn tonight. The priestess has her fire contained. I shiver, forcing my gaze away from her, knowing I need to measure the progress of the greater battle.

And it is then that I sight him, the one person in the whole of Westeros who managed to surprise me after my imprisonment in Kings Landing. Who made me finally lose all faith in the gods. The man who shattered my nightmarish memories of Joffery; the monster who shoved all those old wounds aside, only to replace them with his own, personal horrors.

My bastard Lord Husband is in the thick of bloodshed, and he is relishing in it. Even from far above the yard, I can see that wicked gleam, his shining teeth and glazed eyes. He is chopping men, slashing men, butchering men, spending too much time watching men die. It seems the Bastard's Boys have been charged with protecting him as he revels in the slaughter, surrounding him and buffeting any wayward attacks. I send a silent prayer to those gods I have disowned, begging them to make him fall and fail. _You could answer me this one small prayer, after so many years of silence._

There are many attackers, many more than there should be. Men bearing flaming hearts, men bearing stags, men in mail, men in heavy leathers, men in dented plate, men doused in blood and in fire… and some, no matter how fleeting my glances of them or how infrequent their appearance, I am _sure_ bear the midnight blue of House Arryn. But their appearance denies all reason. Lord Baelish is ever quick to hoard his assets.

And yet, he is also quick to sell such commodities when they become irresistibly profitable. _Remember that he sold you, without hesitation or care… to a veiled, smiling monster. Never forget._

I shift against the window ledge, pulling my chain closer, wiggling my toes against the numbness that grows around my shackled leg. _But how did the attackers break through the outer and inner wall defenses?_ I am not versed in war, nor the strategies which encompass such a fray, but this problem presses against my conscious like some kind of warped maternal instinct, urging me to observe and anticipate the future weaknesses of my broken castle. We are alike now, this once proud structure and myself, gutted and bared open to the cruelty of this world. Winterfell knows my pains and has soaked up my tears. I might as well begin to learn its own faults as well.

The priestess' fire seems the obvious answer to my question, as it continues to wheel and lash out at the fighting men. Its weaker, dimmer cousins still burn at the main and postern gates, concentrated in a way that implies a direct attack, as if each entrance was scorched selectively. Other, nearby wooden structures stand strong and untouched. _A strange sight, amidst so much flaming turmoil._

Movement above the yard, skirting quickly along the far battlements, catches my attention. I had absently noticed the Bolton bowman stationed there before, along with the pail-bearers chucking tar over the castle walls, but those men had seemed unimportant in their constant, distant actions. Now I am drawn to them as they suddenly shift left, scurrying like rats running from a surge of gutter water, retreating back to a tower's safety as a new press of intruders punctures their upper level of defense. In mere minutes, the steady onslaught of attacking Queen's men overtakes them and their tower stronghold. The flaming men quickly move to station their own troops along the defensive walk, kicking and throwing bodies aside, loosing arrows upon enemies in the yard below. At their center, one of the victors raises the burning heart and stag standard of Stannis Baratheon. The fabric seems to glow despite the torrent of snow, blazing like a guiding beacon for any man lost out in the icy, northern landscape.

It is hard to watch, this shifting perspective before me. Not because it disappoints me, but because it cannot _truly_ be real. The Boltons cannot truly be losing. It must still be an unfair trick of my subconscious, or an elaborate amusement constructed by Ramsey for his cruel delight and my continuing anguish. My life has been centered solely on my despair for so long, I have become incapable of imagining or tolerating such monumental change. A new fear grips me. _Who will betray me next, who will claim me as their new plaything if Ramsay fails? Will my new tormentor be worse than my last?_ It seems difficult to envision anyone more sadistic or malicious… but before my Lord Husband there was Joffery. _Foolish girl, your existence was so much easier back then._

But as I continue to watch, I can feel it bubbling up in the pit of my stomach: that growing, gnawing _hunger_ , deeper and wider than any physical pain I have ever felt at being denied food. I step back from the sill, desperate to remove myself from the sight of battle. Its intricate, undeniable presence has somehow managed to bring me back to that _ridiculous_ emotion, as no other ruse or trick has been able to since the day Theon betrayed me beyond all chance of forgiveness. The morning he truly became _Reek_ in my eyes. That day when all my hope was discarded.

 _Yes, lay down again_ , I tell myself, dropping to the safety of the floor. _Curl in on yourself and wait for this moment's passing. Wait for the day._ _It will reveal the truth._

It has been some time since I noticed the effects of winter's chill, or since I acknowledged that the remnants of my dress are now just rags which barely cover me, scraps which no longer shield me from abuse or greedy eyes. But as I draw in on myself again, becoming the faithful dog waiting for her master, my appearance startles me. Pulled briefly from the context of my life, on dreams of fantasy and flaming saviors meant to rescue me, I now realize how completely _unworthy_ of saving I am. Broken and beaten beyond all recognition.

 _I am no Stark of Winterfell. Even if Stannis manages to slaughter every last Bolton and northern betrayer in the castle, I still won't be able to rise to that mantle again._ Perhaps this is the thought that frightens me most, not having any true self to cling to anymore. I am just the veiled girl now, who shields herself with fear.

A knock comes from my doorway, so sudden and unexpected that I flinch. I gather my legs further into my chest, shielding my ears with my shaking hands, forcing my eyes shut against reality. _Reek or Ramsay have come now… to pull me out of here and away from Winterfell before all is lost._ Freezing in the drifts beyond my castle home will be a much more preferable way to die, I decide.

"Lady Sansa? Lady Sansa Stark, are you in there?" The voice outside my inner chamber door is urgent and lilted and undeniably southron. A voice I cannot recall, though there are so many men occupying Winterfell now, it is entirely possible I have never met this man.

The door creaks open when I do not answer, a high-pitched whine which, though muffled, breaks through the barrier of my hands. I feel the vibration of boots thudding on the floor boards, the intensity of each step growing as the person nears me. Somehow I draw my limbs even tighter around me, like I am a small, cocooning insect. I steel myself to be kicked, beaten, or worse.

Hands ghost over me, so light I feel for a moment that they are not truly there, that I have just imagined them, but then they press gently again my shoulder, trying to draw a hand away from my face. These are not the hands of my bastard husband, nor the hands of Reek – the creature never dares to touch me. These are hands of soft leather, still cold and damp with snow.

I think of the heavy chain which lies beside me, my last vestige of defense against this new intruder, and then I let my eyes crack open. There is a man crouching before me, silvery and shining in his plate and mail, a deep maroon cloak hanging limply off his back, every part of his armor wet and dripping. Droplets splatter loudly against the floor as he searches my face. I swear the soft, persistent noise is almost deafening in the gathering quiet. _What is he looking for?_ Sky blue eyes flicker over my own, then over my hair, and then back to my face.

"Is it truly you? Are you Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell?" His question seems so earnest, without malicious intent or hidden agenda, that at first I cannot find my voice. This is a different sort of game, one I have not encountered in some time. Ramsay used to lead me into believing I was safe with false kindnesses, so I can no longer bring myself to trust the gesture. Even though I have spotted the crimson heart and rearing stag at this soldier's breast, even though his open hand and his soft, pink face seem to convey every sense of humane honesty and courtesy, I cannot put my faith in him.

"I am Lord Ramsay Bolton's wife…" I stammer, because that is what I am now above all other things. It is the only answer my bastard husband would approve of.

The hand on my shoulder squeezes, ever so lightly, yet I still flinch. There is now sadness in the features of the man before me, perhaps even pity.

"Yes, you were that once. But what have you always been, my Lady?" he whispers, as if afraid to blow me away. I feel as if I _could_ blow away, or at least scurry back into my dark corner with my chain in tow, hiding from the power of such a strange, probing question. _It is like something Ramsay would ask._

"I do not… I do not know what you mean…" The words choke me, because they are mostly the truth but also a lie. Tears have started to slip down my cheeks, as I realize I will not be able to find the right answer, as I realize I have already failed to pass this trial. I will be _punished_ for this.

"Hush now my Lady, there is no need for that." I think my tears have unnerved him; perhaps made him decide to execute Ramsay's wishes much sooner than expected.

Shuffling movement, clanking manly sounds, and then I realize there is another presence at the doorway. A new shadow rises beside our own on the far wall. I notice that I finally appear insignificant next to the bulky silhouette of my interrogator. The new blot of blackness moves away from the door, closer to our own shadows until it has partially merged with that of the blue-eyed man. I feel unable to pull my gaze away from the wall, my terror absolute.

 _It is Ramsay_ , some sickened, attuned part of me believes. I cannot bear the thought of looking into his triumphant eyes.

But then – I am so quickly overwhelmed by the force of the realization that it strikes me like an invisible slap – I realize that this person is _not_ him. This new intruder is _not_ my tormentor. I want to sob, my relief feels so physical, like an ache disappearing under soothing balm.

"What do you think, Horpe? Is it her?" The kindly, blue-eyed interrogator asks.

A rougher voice answers after a moment, thick with phlegm, and perhaps even sickness. Too much certainty belies his words, making me shut my eyes to the room once more.

"Aye, it's her… There's that Tully look about her, with them eyes and that hair. By R'hllor's light, she's Sansa Stark of Winterfell."


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

* * *

Women with soft, hushed voices have attended me, scrubbing and grooming the length of my body clean and pink. They have drawn a brush through my hair, working against the nest of knots and tangles, snipping away the dead bits which are beyond saving. _My hair…_ once such an integral part of my pride and being, now seems so insignificant. Much shorter than it has ever been, I can feel the end of my plait skimming against my shoulders. _What would mother think, if she saw my long, auburn locks so damaged?_

They pulled me up from my murky bath water, gently patting me dry before lacing me into one of the fine, onyx gowns I used to wear as Alayne. _Even hers is a name which no longer fits me._ The bodice has become a bit too loose at my waist, though the women tried to cinch it tightly. After finally finishing their work, they passed a looking glass beneath my downcast eyes.

Yet I could not bring myself to look, no matter how gently they urged me. _How do they not understand?_ My own image was so often used as a means of torture by my bastard Lord Husband, that the thought of seeing its wreckage again made me relive the memories afresh. At least once a fortnight, Ramsay would order a full length mirror brought into our chambers, just for the purposes of taunting my naked form. He made me stand before it, pinching and grabbing each of my insufficiencies as a woman, making me poke at my own bruises, forcing me to recall all of the pains he had previously inflicted.

I am not ready to gaze upon the frail shell of my reflection. Whatever slight improvement has been made to my outward appearance will not make me feel any better. And I am sure now that I will never again see myself as I did years ago, when I felt beautiful in summer silks and the fashions of courtly, southron women. _Such a pretty, stupid, foolish girl._

I sit straight-backed and rigid in my quarters now, trying to keep my head up but feeling my chin drop to my chest only moments after I raise it. My eyes are most comfortable on the lower levels of life, cast down from the questioning and pitying stares of others. I gently arch my back, not daring to move too quickly in front of the two knights who guard me. It has been long months since I have felt the pressure of a corset, and I must remind myself how to breathe while seated, silently chanting the instructions in my mind. _Short inhale, long exhale, short inhale, long exhale…_ The rhythm gives me purpose, gives me something to grasp onto in this new reality I am unable to comprehend. Especially now, since an uneasy hour has passed in quiet, stoic _waiting_.

Many a person have tried talking to me this morning: a fat, waddling septa with a sagging face; a gaggle of whispering servant girls who came with food and drink; a gnarled, coughing maester, sounding near death; a bloodstained squire who claimed to have met me in my girlhood, though he seemed much too young. Each one tried to comfort and then question me, their tactics shifting as quickly as their differing appearances. I remained silent to them all. Not with much difficulty either, as most of their words gusted over my conscious like wind. It would have proved easier to pay attention if they spoke of things that truly mattered, but they instead chose to focus their prattling worries on the condition of my mind and body. _As if such things are not obvious and apparent… What version of a woman were they pretending to see?_

There is only one question which matters anymore, and yet they continually failed to ask it, nor to answer it for me. _"Do you know what has happened to Ramsay, my Lady?"_ His terrible, dirty bastard name is buried at the forefront of my mind, like a splinter I cannot pick loose. I need to know _what_ has become of him; am incurably desperate to know whether he escaped, was imprisoned or, _oh gods please be good_ , has already been executed.

Perhaps my raging curiosity has shown through my careful silence, for it was in those rare moments when I finally appeared to care about the subject of information which was meant to be drawn out of me, waking from the blur of my inattention to hopefully learn _something_ of worth, that the one-sided conversations suddenly dropped to silence. My interrogators, under the guises of false comforters, often chose to leave me then, politely excusing themselves as if urgent matters had suddenly materialized before them.

 _They do not trust me_ , I quickly realized. _They mistake my silence for guilt or collusion…_ _they take_ _my interest in Ramsay for devoted, wifely concern._

Their mistrust has become all the more apparent in where they have chosen put me: a dank, lower-level room, with a high slit of a window that only affords me a single beam of shadowed light. My previous view of the bloody, snow-laden yard, and all other portions of my old home, have been taken from me; my movement through the castle silently forbidden by the guards at my door. I have been locked away, securely removed from the hustle and bustle which thrums through Winterfell's walls. _They won't allow me any chance to truly know what is happening_. I have come to accept it, almost relieved to have a new sense of solid order.

I chance a sidelong glance at one of my flame-hearted guardsmen, my gaze darting away from his face when I feel his attention flick to mine. He appears weary, his features slackened and his eyes glassy _. From long hours of killing Bolton bannermen_ , I guess.

At least that much they cannot hide from me – the overall outcome of the fiery fray. Somehow, beyond all reason and Bolton preparation, Stannis Baratheon has conquered Winterfell. The news should bolster my spirits, bring me unequivocal joy, but the terror of my unforeseen future keeps me restless and taunt. _What will become of me? And what of Ramsay?_ I'm still waiting for someone to brutally explain my new purpose in this world, to strip away the kind pretenses my care givers keep forcing upon me.

A rapping sounds at my door, quick and sharp, urging me to duck my head lower. One of my knights rouses from inaction, reaching for the door and allowing someone entry. _I will not look directly at this person,_ I remind myself, _not unless asked. I will remain silent._

The person, a man I surmise from the metallic tinkle of chain mail, comes to stand before me, not as near as my other visitors have dared to but distantly, as if he is preparing to address some high lord. _Can he not see how broken I am? Why will no one truly look at me?_ They have dressed me up to play some unpredictable part, but I am still far from what they've intended.

 _I am no longer a Lady. Nor a Stark._

The new intruder is silent for many moments, assessing me I imagine. I use the limited view I allow myself to look upon him as well. Brown leather boots barely reach his knees, the pants he dons pluming widely around his legs, as if made for a larger man. The material appears to be bulky, layered wool; not necessarily an inexpensive cut of cloth, but patched and gnarled in too many places to be considered the finer fabric of a lord. _A messenger then_ , I decide.

"Lady Sansa, I understand that you have been through a great deal." The man pauses, not uncomfortably it seems, but perhaps out of courtesy. He may want some sort of reply, but I feel unable to supply any measure of conversation. Not yet. Not so soon.

He continues only when I fail to answer, his voice accented, syllables sounding heavy and rounded. "I ask your forgiveness for the intrusion, but the trueborn king, his Grace Stannis Baratheon, bids you to see him now. If you would please follow me?"

With the effort required to say _'his Grace'_ and _'my Lady'_ , I finally recognize that this messenger speaks with a voice from Flea Bottom. It is a mob man's voice, a lowly beggar's voice, a voice used to chastise the bastard Joffrey when he dared to sit the iron throne. _He is a foreigner, too far north in these winter lands._

Still waiting for me, he extends a gloved hand into my plane of view, the digits appearing small and strange... I realize he is missing the tips of each finger. "Will you please, my Lady?" he urges gently.

All the continuing courtesies of today are beginning to stifle me. _Why doesn't he just command me to come in the King's name?_ _Why even pretend to ask nicely, when everyone seems so suspicious of me?_ These are new worries, more difficult to consider and comprehend because I am still finding it impossible to act accordingly under the buzzing, constant strain of wondering… _Who is my new master?_ I cannot manage politeness when my very existence is still a question.

He waits, but I do not answer. Cannot answer, no matter how simple and benign the request. I will not walk eagerly into a situation I am unable to anticipate.

I hear his slight intake of breath, and then a long sigh. He signals something to the guards flanking my doorway. Their sudden, clanking movements cause a flash of ripe fear to rise in me, propelling me to my feet. For so long they have stood like silent, peaceful statues, but now it as if they have transformed into my red-winged executioners, hands cupped over their sword pommels like they mean to dispatch me.

 _Would that be so horrible?_

They are on me before I can scramble away to cower in a corner, each man taking one of my arms. In my fluttering panic _any_ contact at all is an invasion, but I am present enough to note that they are not as rough as I would have imagined. They steer me towards the door, and I know I _mustn't_ cry, know I _shouldn't_ protest… Ramsay would flog me for denying his wishes; for ruining his sadistic fantasies with noise.

But this feels dark and ultimate and deeply foreboding. As if I am beginning my death's march already, being led towards a king's righteous sentencing.

"No, _please_!" I gasp, twisting my arms fruitlessly against the strength that detains me.

"Wait," the messenger orders, halting my detainees. He steps closer to me, his voice dropping low and steady, as if to calm a frightened mare.

"There is nothing to fear from us, Lady Sansa. I know that it may be difficult to comprehend right now, after all you've been through, but you will come to see it as truth soon enough. These men are only here to assist you on your way to his Grace. They will support and protect you. And I will come between you and anything else that troubles you." His words seem genuine, to the ears of that distant, now-vacant part of me which was quick to believe all knights and gentlemen were kind and gallant. I know much better now.

His stubby hand is offered again, and though I do not trust it at all, there seems less chance of rough mishandling within its grasp. My arms will be free to move about once again. Reluctantly, I extend my own shaking hand into his, my guard knights dropping their hold of me as I acquiesce.

"There now," the messenger seems to smile at my acceptance, as if he has accomplished something monumental. He pulls me gently towards the door, so lightly that I feel like a leaf being directed on a current of wind. "You may call me Davos, my Lady, if it please you. His Grace is quite eager to see you alive and well."

 _Alive, perhaps. He shall be disappointed if he truly expects anything more from me but my ability to breathe._ I cannot be flippant, not for more than a second anyway, not when I find myself tensing at my following thoughts. Dark, wandering roads of uncertainty await me. I do not know the man I am being taken to. I hardly know the one who holds me, steering me around torch-lit corners and up a steep, winding staircase.

 _What will this new king want from me?_


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

* * *

A door has been closed behind me, and I have been made to sit, Davos' too-small hand leaving my own. A flurry of introductions are said around me, but I take no part in any of it, instead focusing my attentions on the floor boards. Wide planks of honey-colored pine, they are pitted and weathered and so smooth I want to trace a finger over them _._ I know these floors in a heart-breaking, intimate way. For long years I played upon them with my siblings, not knowing that we would be the last Starks permitted the frivolous luxury.

 _This is mother and father's bedchamber._ The realization both warms and chills me, making a deep, yearning ache fill the bottom of my tummy. I am so eager to feel their presence once more, to see father pouring over letters at his desk while mother stitches embroidery by the fireside, I want to sob. They seem so real and touchable in my memory's eye, as if they will appear at any moment.

A hand falls lightly on my shoulder, making me flinch. "Lady Sansa? His Grace has addressed you." Davos is still wearing his mask of kindness, but there is now a sense of urgency pulsing through his voice as well.

I panic to recall what has been said. Words would fail me regardless, feeling sticky and heavy in my mouth, but it is important that I know. _What has been asked of me?_ The shape of my destiny likely rests on this one interaction but I have long-forgotten my ladylike courtesies, my polite means of dispelling anger and suspicion. Yet even if I had somehow retained such ridiculous skills, I'm sure they would not help me here.

I know very little of Stannis Baratheon, except that he is stern and pragmatic to a fault, rumored to hold no regard for anyone who wastes his precious time. Beyond that, there are too many unknowns… daring to gauge or manipulate this man's mind seems beyond reckless.

 _He burns men…_ _What if he has already decided to condemn me to one of his priestess' pyres?_ I squirm a little in my chair, curling my palms into fists.

"Did the maester _forget_ to mention that her tongue was cut out?"

The voice is like a whip, so quick and cutting and unexpected that it pulls me back into my horrid past. I feel as if I _know_ this voice, though I have never heard it before. This is a man who cares little for women, who is willing to discard them when they prove stupid and worthless. _The voice of yet another unkind king_ … I feel terrified yet also strangely relieved. I can understand harshness; am almost comfortable with its cruel predictability.

"Your Grace," Davos says carefully, "I have been assured that she remains whole. I'm told it is her mind that has been damaged."

"Yes it has," intones another, farther off to my right. A woman, with a low, predatory voice. She speaks as if she knows me, has measured me, has groped around in my mind so that she may reveal all my deepest secrets.

 _The Red Woman._ I need to pay more attention, should have actually _listened_ when she was introduced! I feel doubly accosted now and wholly unprepared. I imagine her conjuring that strange, roiling fire, preparing to strike at me with a lash of flame. I'm not sure if I imagine a rise in temperature…

The silence following her statement stretches on, and I can feel the attention of the room upon me, weighty and crucial as they examine my cowering form. _How could I ever meet their gazes under such scrutiny?_

"It is her mind that we need now," the king says decidedly, speaking as if I am no longer here. "If she cannot pay attention or speak, then we cannot proceed as planned."

The sound of fabric rustling, then the creak of a chair, and I realize Stannis Baratheon has sat down, possibly behind my father's writing desk. There is too much quiet permanence behind his statement, too much finality.

"Your Grace," Davos begins carefully, "If she was maybe given a bit more time, or if we took her testimony in private-"

"We have no time. And she has no wits, just look at her. Who else is willing?"

"…There are only a few others of merit, your Grace. The Corbray boys, and maybe some of the Manderly men. But even their credibility is questionable." There is unease in Davos' voice, and a touch of frustration, as if he has been through this discussion before.

"Liars and turncloaks…" Stannis seethes, and I can hear the clench in his jaw. "We need better. There must be others."

"No, your Grace, I have been to the dungeons myself to look over the men. Most Stark loyalists died or were executed, and those few that remain have seen too much flaying and bloodshed to talk." Davos pauses, perhaps to steady himself because he inhales deeply. "I still believe Lady Sansa is our best choice. She has likely seen and experienced far more than the others. Her birthright alone would support her claims."

Stannis growls, rising to his feet, boots thudding against the floors I love. "This girl before me isn't a Stark though." I can tell he is gesturing at me now, putting me on display to make some point, " _She_ , is a beat dog, Sir Davos; too long under the whip to bear her _direwolf_ fangs."

He has mocked me and my family, stinging what little remains of my pride, but he has also _seen_ me. _Finally, another sees me as I truly am._

"She's the last of house Stark, your Grace." Davos replies quickly, sounding riled, and I am aghast that even he – though an advisor to his king – deems it wise to speak to Stannis Baratheon in such a way. "She holds _more_ value than any other northern man in this castle. She should at least be allowed the opportunity to speak."

"More _value_?" Stannis scoffs, moving across the room. "There is little to nothing left to gain from her, except her family's lands and titles. This has been a waste… I will sentence them myself."

 _Again he has dismissed me._ I am unworthy of some task, though I cannot guess the part I had been expected to play – excluding, perhaps, as the harsh king has made plain, my role as an heiress. Petyr Baelish saw me in a similar light, marking me as the unthreatening key to the North, the girl who would eventually bend and wither under the control of an ambitious husband.

Curiosity and dread prickle my conscience. _What purpose was meant for me and what have I failed to accomplish? Does my inability mean my doom?_ I struggle against my compulsions, willing myself to raise my head, to raise my eyes... to save myself with my ability to speak and prove useful once more.

But it is all for naught. I shouldn't even try. I cannot bring myself to disregard my punishments so quickly. The ghost of Ramsay is still controlling my behaviors, demanding my strict submission. _Stannis is alone in his measurement of me._ Perhaps now that their flaming king has proclaimed it with such vicious objectivity, the new occupants of Winterfell will finally acknowledge what has become of me.

"There is another way, my king." The Red Woman makes the offer quietly, knowingly, swishing out from her corner of the room. "A way which uses Lady Stark as you intend, yet requires little exertion from the Lady herself."

 _She has always intended to shape the course of whatever decision is being made_ , I realize. The turmoil of the masculine debate was her cue to offer advice. _Ambitious women are smart to make men believe they are in charge._

"And what would you advise?" Stannis says quietly, the edge in his voice biting my ears. "And don't _dare_ suggest her blood. The _King in the North_ was no true king."

"No, my king, he was not." The Red Woman speaks softly, reverently, building upon something, though I'm not sure what. "You alone I have seen triumphant in the flames; you're legitimacy is beyond question. _You_ are Azor Ahai reborn."

Her words hold value; her opinion matters. I can feel it in the way the room waits for her to continue, uncharacteristically quiet for a woman.

"What I suggest, my king, is quite simple. The Lady will not face her tormentors, not as you and I would face one another. Fear clouds her mind, binding her against decision. We need simply remove her from the court's view: veil her, behind a screen perhaps. None need know that she is there."

Davos has shifted, fidgeting beside me. "I never thought I'd say it, your Grace, but I agree with the Lady Melisandre. It could work."

"But what of her _voice_?" Stannis barks, walking about the room, pacing I guess. "She is no good without the ability to speak."

"Easily solved as well, my king." The Red Lady moves, her gown wisping like silk.

 _Why would she wear something so frivolous in winter?_ But then I realize, in the way the air warms around me, in how close she comes to stand before me. _She_ is warmth; she is radiating heat. I both yearn to lean closer and cringe away. Only strange, volatile magic could create such a unique aura, I am sure. This woman is beyond any danger I have yet to encounter… if simply because I do not know _what_ horrors she is fully capable of.

Her maroon dress pools as she kneels before me, and I instantly drop my gaze lower, back to the floors of my family. For a fleeting, gasping moment our eyes have met… hers so burning and _knowing_ … and suddenly I feel as if the outer world has faded from us. She is a glowing, scalding sun, and she has beckoned me to blind myself by looking upon her… A compulsion runs deeply through me, and as her hot fingers curl beneath my chin, bidding me to look up, I consent without really meaning to. A creamy, smooth face, with swirling, scarlet eyes, stares into my own.

"There you are, Lady Stark. Forgive my intrusion," she withdraws her hand, "but it is much easier to see the _true_ Sansa Stark when our gazes meet."

The way she says _true_ … as if there is some secret I do not even know about myself, makes me sit farther back into my chair.

"You see, my king," she speaks more loudly, "Lady Stark merely needs a way of communicating with a room; she is obviously quite present and compliant. We will give her a means of making her decisions known."

A stone is pushed into my hands, and though I wish to examine it, I still feel the need to watch the Red Woman as she watches me. Her voice drops, for my ears alone.

"This fear of yours will pass, child. It is a simple thing to manage, and we will conquer it quickly. For now and tomorrow, use this speaking stone. Strike one knock to answer with a 'no', and two knocks for a 'yes'."

The solution seems so simple – the implications liberating because I may be allowed _some_ chance to save myself while still hiding within the prison of my mind – that I am almost thankful. Yet suspicion and distrust riddle every thought which passes through me. The fire priestess has intentions beyond the scope of my own… I cannot believe her, even as she acts as my ally.

She smiles before our eyes part and then stands, sweeping away from view. It is as if a gust has blown through the room, emanating from myself, as her strange power lifts from me. My head is my own to control again. I quickly duck it into my chest.

"Well then? Why is she still _not_ speaking?" The king admonishes.

Melisandre sounds vaguely triumphant to my ears, but her tone is so subtle I am sure it is lost on the men in this room.

"Ask her a question, your Grace. Something which may be answered simply, with a yes or no."

The whisper of leathers and rough-spun wool, and I realize that Stannis Baratheon himself is standing before me, judging me, waiting to chastise whatever responses I may manage to conjure with the stone wedged in my palm.

"Are you Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, former Lord of Winterfell?"

 _Oh no_ … why _this_ question? Either response seems dishonest.

I return to my instincts and the actions which have kept me alive through painful interactions: what answer does this man _wish_ to hear?

I rap the stone against my chair arm once, then twice. A pregnant silence follows, the dull thud of rock on wood echoing in my mind.

"Is this your idea of speech?" Stannis has turned away from me, his anger pitched across the room, accosting his priestess with venom. "I need her testimony, not… whatever _this_ is."

Unruffled, the Red Woman comes near us again. "She has answered you, my king, and quite clearly. Two knocks represents a yes, but one would have meant a no. In this way she will be quite capable of passing judgment. Tomorrow I suggest she be hidden away at court but allowed full view of those under question. Have their charges read publicly, and if Lady Stark agrees or disagrees with the accusations she will make her opinions audibly known. You may still measure out justice, with the fair amount of evidence you seek."

I feel dizzy with the realization… I understand what they intend now, what they wish me to do. _Who_ they may wish me to condemn. But how can I _face_ my tormentor, or even occupy the same room – hidden or not? The mere thought of being in his presence again makes me fight against the tight corset that binds me, wishing I could curl in on myself, preparing my mind and body for violence.

Davos speaks again, startling me because he has moved quite close, standing behind my shoulder. "It seems a good plan, my Grace. But what does Lady Sansa think?" His hand alights on my shoulder again, and this time I somehow withhold any outward reaction. "Will you pass judgment on the Bolton men and northern betrayers who tried to claim Winterfell as their own?"

I run my thumb over the surface of the stone which has given me a voice and opinion; given me the petrifying, yet liberating chance to have some say in what will become of my bastard Lord Husband. _If he still lives_ _I can help sentence Ramsay…_ It is what I have yearned for, so achingly and completely that it seemed my only thought at times. My very breath had felt long-repurposed for his destruction. Yet, now that the opportunity is upon me, I am almost paralyzed.

Almost, and yet not quite. The disgusting flood of hope that surges through me is something I cannot suppress in the moment. If this is the last action I am ever truly allowed to perform, and then I am made to resume my tortured, lonely life, I _will_ decide. I will choose and be heard.

I raise the stone, knocking it loudly against wood. One hit, then two, and I have finally spoken.

 _Yes. I will judge those who broke me._


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

* * *

The Great Hall of Winterfell falls quiet, the crush of attendants watching as Stannis Baratheon climbs the high dais to seat himself where my father used to rule. _Where my father passed judgment…_ I can still remember the concentration on father's face, the lines that creased his brow as he listened to charges and pleas; how he kept a hand resting upon the hilt of his great sword, as if to remind himself of the punishments which may come.

 _My father was fair and just. What will Stannis be?_

I allow myself to look at the king now, as well as the rest of the court, if only because my actions are finally private. No one can see me within this odd witness box, constructed just for me. A sheath of dark fabric separates me from the world, enclosing me on all sides and offering me a complete view of the gallery below while also hiding me from sight. I sigh with the relief of being somewhat alone, my guards made to stand outside the screen. No one can punish me for being too forward with my gazes.

It is my first moment of free examination; my first chance to safely look upon the man who most likely rules me now. Stannis Baratheon _is_ stern… oh yes, that is beyond question. His sits stiffly, his body and limbs perfectly aligned, his posture reminding me of one of those unbendable straw dolls I've seen for sale at market. And there is so much tightness about his face, his features all severe lines and angles, that I cannot imagine him smiling.

 _He seems so uncomfortable, almost as if he is in pain._

Nothing like the lazy slouch Joffrey favored while sitting the iron throne, or the restless impatience Ramsay often displayed while seated at table, this king sits tall and attentive, a scowl already affixed to his face, his jaw working around some hidden ire. I wonder what could possibly vex him so severely before the proceedings have even begun, or if this is the way he always appears. _Perhaps he is riled by the tedium of the task before him, or the breed of prisoners to be dealt with?_

A graying steward stands to the side of him, a thick scroll of parchment stretched between wrinkled hands. When the silence of the hall finally feels complete, and I am sure the lowest of whispers could be heard, Stannis raises a hand, signaling the trial to commence.

The steward's voice is much louder than I expect, yet somewhat raspy, as if too long in the frosts of winter. "By order of his Grace, Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Azor Ahai Come Again, those accused of crimes against the crown and the greater realm shall be tried on this day, in the sight of R'hllor and men. May the witnesses attest to these crimes justly, and may the Light deliver those accused."

Stannis lifts his hand again and it seems the guards flanking the side entryway understand, moving to pull the heavy doors wide. Knights enter the greater hall, clad in full plate and mail, their burning heart sigils glowing vividly against gray and grave exteriors. The crowd parts before them, allowing them to swiftly take position along the length of the created aisle. More men follow behind, shuffling slowly between the rows of knights who oversee them, weighed down by heavy shackles at their ankles and wrists.

I remember my own chain as I watch them enter and I wiggle my toes out of habit, suddenly feeling the phantom ache that will not leave me, though it has been several days since my cuff's removal. The locksmith seemed truly horrified when it finally came off, cringing at the ring of red and purple which circled my ankle like a tattoo.

 _This task will much be easier to bear if I remember all that was done to me… and all the cruelty I have seen._

Many faces in the retinue of prisoners are familiar, but some are too caked with filth and abuse to identify. The ones I pick out are largely innocent of crimes against me; men I just happen to recall from those rare occasions when I was allowed to join Ramsay at dinner or for walks along the battlements. Some were even kind to me, though only in quiet, unobtrusive ways that would not call attention to themselves: an extra serving of venison slid onto my plate; a few more logs brought up for my chamber fire; the decency to look away when my Lord husband chose to molest me in public.

Other faces stand out so intensely, so shockingly, that little, puffing gasps of desperation escape me when I look upon them, my eyes darting away as soon as I recognize _who_ they are and _what_ crimes they have committed. I have come to believe that no house has ever embodied the meaning of its emblems and words more than house Bolton. The memories of the flayings I have seen, along with the jovial, almost rapturous moments which passed between Bolton bannerman throughout the process – as if another's pain was their sole pleasure – still sicken me to the point of nausea. Too fresh and close and visceral to ever forget, I'm sure such scenes will haunt me for long years to come.

 _If I am allowed long years…_

My participation in this affair is hardly consensual; I know I am once again a pawn in a larger game, with choices that are no longer my own to make. I may have had a brazen moment of foolish abandon when asked to witness two nights ago, but hours have cleared away such recklessness. All too quickly, I remembered who I was meant to face and condemn; was told exactly who had survived the battle unscathed. The bastard Ramsay Snow is not a man to be quickly forgotten, and a deep, twisted part of my soul still twitches with anxiety at the thought of displeasing him. _Will he know it is me in the witness box? Will he somehow manage escape, slaughtering all the Baratheon invaders before then recapturing me?_ These have been my constant thoughts, even though they defy all rationality.

The line of accused men stretches the length of the hall, the tail-end winding into the outer entryway. Ramsay and his Lord Father are not among them, unless they are two of those hunched souls who have been beaten beyond all recognition. _Reek could easily be one of those men_ , I hope beyond hope. His betrayal goes deeper than the pains Ramsay has drawn from me. The boy I remember, that boy who knew me at one time as a brother knows a sister, betrayed me in my moment of greatest need. Even after turning against Robb, Bran and Rickon, and all those others who had adopted him within the walls of Winterfell, and then having a torturous amount of time to reflect on his sins, he still deceived me when I pleaded for his salvation.

The line stretches on, and still I cannot sight my tormentor. _Will each man be addressed individually?_ I glance at Stannis again, more appreciative of the tiring task before him. We will likely be here deep into the night if each man is to be tried fairly. _Why does he not simply sentence them all to death, or let them waste away in the dungeons?_ I wonder once more. As he repeatedly argued with his Red Woman, there is much and more to be done within this castle before winter is fully upon us, and yet he still chooses to spend time on this pointless affair. It all seems such a waste.

The king gestures to his steward again, apparently beyond the pretense of asking for charges to be read. Perhaps more simply, I guess, he is saving his voice for the many hours to come.

And so it begins in slow, agonizing fashion, each of the accused being thrust upon the lower steps of the dais and then being made to kneel before his Grace. Some drop willingly, from exhaustion more often it seems than any measure of respect. Their names are read and then their charges are listed, beginning with a pack of Freys and betrayers, and then progressing into a longer list of Manderlys from White Harbor. Most appear listless, accepting their crimes and judgments without a word. Others protest loudly, spitting dangerous threats and obscenities at their captors. Some, though very few, cry for mercy.

Nearly all are sentenced to death, though in a variety of differing forms. The priestess' fire is the most popular fate, then the noose, and finally the sword. _I know which end I would wish for…_

Even after hearing their names there are few men I recognize. Only twice in the coming hour am I called upon to confirm the measures of a charge, Stannis turning his harsh face upward, seeming to lock eyes with my own despite the curtain which veils me. I look away then, though answer as prompted. On both accounts I deny having any knowledge of such crimes – the men are wholly unfamiliar to me, and I am sure I would remember hearing word of their alleged involvement in such a gruesome murder. _A young boy… who would do such a thing to a child?_

 _…Reek would_ , the brutality of my mind supplies.

I knock my stone once in both cases, loud and clear, to confirm my ignorance.

 _Perhaps I should have condemned them anyway,_ I reconsider as the men are pulled from the hall, their fates undecided for the time. All these men should likely be condemned. Yet somehow, even though I no longer feel a Stark, a piece of my father remains branded within me, whispering at me like the ghost of a conscience. I cannot bring myself to lie, not against men who may be innocent, no matter how _more_ likely it is that they are guilty.

Though I have been assured none can truly see me, I still shudder when the attention of the hall turns up in my direction, quizzical and calculating. _They do not know who I am._ _They can't._ It makes my task easier, the anonymity I have been granted, though I wonder how long my identity can be kept a secret. Most of Winterfell's occupants have attended the trial. I watch whispers pass between neighbors, and the fearful part of me begins to take hold again. I caress my speaking stone, worrying at its smooth surface with my thumbs.

"Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy," calls the steward. My attention snaps to the dais, settling on the creature's shaking back. I had not picked him out before, and the coming of his judgment has surprised me.

 _So this is it_ , the moment I have craved for so long.

"As acting commander of the host that attacked and captured this castle, you are accused of committing crimes against the submitting citizenry of Winterfell. Witnesses mark you as permitting twenty seven known charges of torture and murder without just cause. Paramount among these acts, you are accused of killing and burning Brandon and Rickon Stark, sons of the late Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. How do you respond to these charges?"

The hall hushes again, deathly quiet on the hinges of such a question. None have heard Reek publicly proclaim the measure of his crimes since the Bolton's took Winterfell. Ramsay often forced him to speak of Bran and Rickon, but those moments were obviously provoked by fear and aggression. Contrition was never present in any of those eager confessions.

I want to hear Theon confess and repent now. I want to hear him plead and cry for mercy. And then I want to see the hard, bleak face of Stannis Baratheon condemn him; sentence him to _burn_ in one of the Red Woman's roaring fires.

But there is no tangible sense of terror in Reek, not as he begins to speak softly.

"I am guilty of most of those things… I have killed men and women and I have ordered the killings of others. I have betrayed those who raised me by taking their home and people captive… I have hurt many… and for all those things I am sorry." He pauses, raising his head a little higher. I wish I could read his face.

"But I did not kill Brandon or Rickon Stark, and I did not I order their killings. Of those crimes I am innocent… Those bodies we burned belonged to a pair of miller's boys."

Whispers and murmurs begin to rise in the court below, shocked gasps coming from many. I myself am too well-versed in lies to be moved to speculation. _He has deliberately denied the worst of the crimes named!_ Perhaps he hopes to win the favor of his executioners by making himself seem simply a ruthless invader, and not a butcher bent on slaughtering boys? _It will not help him_ , I want to snarl. This act of obedience will _not_ clear his name in the eyes of Stannis. This king will see through him and cut him down.

The steward orders the hall into silence before asking, "You deny the deaths of Brandon and Rickon Stark?"

"Yes," Reek says quickly.

The steward turns towards his master, measuring the king's response I imagine, though I myself cannot detect any hint of emotion in the severe man. But when Stannis begins to speak, it is as if his stony mask has finally crumbled and I am looking upon a man at last. A speculative, inquisitive man bent on answers.

"Those boys were your captives here, after you and your force stormed Winterfell?"

"They were… your Grace."

"Then what happened to them, if I am to take your claims about the imposter corpses as truth?"

Reek hesitates, and I wonder if this is the first flicker of fear I am observing in him, for now he has to lie. _What can he possibly say of my brothers, except that he's the one who truly murdered them?_

"There was a woman, a prisoner who looked after the boys… she helped them escape in the night, not a day after we took the castle. I had my men search for them, and they followed a trail north. When they couldn't find them… that's when I ordered the other ones killed and burnt."

Stannis' eyes narrow, I think, though I may be wrong from this distance. "What proof have you to support these claims?"

The question seems to visibly worry Reek at last, making the creature duck his head low. He stumbles over his words. "I had witnesses… men of my own who killed and burnt those miller's boys and who saw the Stark ones alive, but they've been killed... No one knows the truth now but me."

The finality of his last statement and the implications which surround it finally shock me… _He has given himself no way out._ He has confessed to his crimes without any evidence, and therefore no hope of being granted a pardon. Such actions, all blatant and brave and foolish, do not speak of Reek. They speak of a man with honor… and that is _not_ the man Theon Greyjoy is now, or perhaps ever was. Especially not after what Ramsay has made of him.

"Then your actions must be weighed and judged by the court." Stannis replies without remorse.

 _This is it…_ my heart hammers, anticipating the next words to come. If I am called – and I _must_ be, because at least by name I am the sole remaining member of my broken family – I will be read each of the charges again and will then be asked to either confirm or deny them individually.

And for Theon, this person I have come to loathe so completely, there is no hesitation in my mind, no fatherly doubts which cloud or sway my conscience towards justice or pity. _He is guilty._ I will willingly condemn him.

My hand shakes as it hovers above my arm's chair, ready to descend with the voice of my speaking stone.

"Without further evidence, I find you guilty of all charges, Theon Greyjoy," Stannis says, his voice deliberate and without hesitation.

Something has happened, something I must have missed…

 _I have been passed over? My decision has been stripped from me?_ For once, in so, so long, I had felt a moment of _life_ again. On the cusp of something near happiness… Vengeance gave me breath, and thought, and a _yearning_ so acute I nearly felt it in my chest, but now the sensation has evaporated, drying and withering within me. I feel a shell once more, incapable of choice or bold action.

It does not matter that he has sentenced Theon to death: Stannis has stolen my ability to condemn the creature who killed Bran and Rickon.

But then, even more impossibly, even more agonizingly, Stannis _continues_ speaking. That measured, fluid voice is meant for destroying, I decide.

"I have no trust for _krakens_ , and for that reason alone I would have you executed here and now." Stannis begins, voice rising higher than I have ever heard it before. "In the sights of men and R'hllor, I _will_ burn you, Theon Greyjoy, for those crimes you have accepted as your own and for the higher crimes committed by your house."

There is a rough pause, a stretching silence as Stannis' anger seems to dampen, the snarl loosening on his lips. "However… at this time I order your execution postponed, until such a time that your claims concerning Brandon and Rickon Stark may be either confirmed or dismissed by my own questioners. My men may not be as well-versed as the _peelers_ plaguing this hall, but they are sufficiently trained to draw out the truth I require."

The threat is cold and promising and the following dismissal so brutal, I wonder how Reek does not collapse from the sheer weight of fear. "Take this _thing_ back to the dungeons."

* * *

 **A/N** : Exacting justice was too much fun, and as a result this scene grew rather long... So I've decided to split the trial into two chapters. Part 2 should be up soon. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

* * *

Fury has filled me but the progression of the trial drags on below. The sentencing of men is steady and slow and seemingly without end – in direct opposition to the tremulous emotions that have overcome me.

I seethe as I wonder why I was even required, _why_ it seemed so imperative to this king's counselors that I attend. I have only been called upon twice to witness, and for the most important criminal – the man who personally harmed me and my family – I was _denied_ a voice.

 _King or no king, Stannis Baratheon had no right to decide Theon's fate… that privilege was mine, and mine alone._

Somehow, once again, I have come to despise a man I barely know.

Perhaps this is a woman's burden though, and for too long I have been ignorantly evaluating each of my tormentors as separate, unequal persons. Perhaps it is a secret my mother never had time to share with me: that we women must learn that all men, no matter how fair or just, will continually reject us those things given to them through mere privilege alone.

My hands work on my speaking stone with new fervor, squeezing the small rock as if I may eventually crush it into pebbles. I wish I had that kind of strength now; that I could descend to the dungeons without hindrance and exact my vengeance on Reek.

 _If I could only take the form of my sweet, powerful direwolf, Lady… if only for a moment._

The wicked, vindictive thoughts that lace my vision should disturb me more, I know. I should never allow myself to slip into the guise of my bastard Lord husband, but I feel unable to push the inclination away. I have been unequivocally and unforgivably _wronged_ , and my body thrums with the injustice of it.

 _What if I am denied the opportunity to judge Ramsay and his Lord father?_ I am desperate now to have the chance, my wayward fears all forgotten in the face of such uncertainty. Never in my time with the king and his counsel did the opportunity seem a question, but since I was denied Theon, perhaps another right will be stolen from my hands as well?

 _But maybe Stannis never intended to use my mind or voice at all…_ The thought builds quickly, suspicion and outrage beginning to take hold as I come to understand at last. My part is not my own. My words have always been wind. I should have realized it before, when Stannis marked my worth… but instead I was a blind little fool, rejoicing in the king's ability to see me as tortured and unstable.

 _He has only granted my involvement in this trial for one reason: my Stark name._ The justice facilitated by Stannis Baratheon will be sung high praises, and the North will come to believe he helped give Winterfell its opportunity for revenge by allowing their sole heir to witness against the Bolton's. He will seem righteous and honorable, making many a hesitant northerner flock to his cause.

I have been used again, manipulated into another's greater design. Numbness and unfocused rage overtake me. I need some kind of release, an immediate escape from my stuffy enclosure.

 _I will not help this king by staying present for his ruse._

The guards who surround me have changed, switching at some point with those who originally attended me. _Perhaps they do not know the full breadth of their orders?_ My mind forms a plan, plotting through the uncertain variables.

I rise slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, and pause before the box's back curtain. The guard closest to me does not appear to have noticed, his attention fixed on something far away. His face is round and soft and clean shaven. It seems a face I can plead with, perhaps even deceive… _but that requires the use of my voice._

I steel myself for the wrath I am so used to receiving, willing myself to speak despite my irrational fear of abuse.

"Ser…" I begin quietly, and the knight's gaze moves to my area of the curtain, appraising me blindly.

"I need a moment outside." I whisper.

He hesitates, and I fear he will deny me. "For what purpose, my Lady? I have been ordered to keep you here until the trial's end."

 _He knows his orders and will detain me._ I search for another alternative. _Vagueness_ , my conscience prompts, _with a bit of obvious allusion_.

"I have to attend to a womanly matter…" I speak shyly, surprised that I remember how to create such a tone. My voice has been disused for so long, only meant for sobs and screams.

"Oh..." The knight replies, seeming embarrassed, as if he has wronged me in some way. "Of course, but quickly please."

He pulls the slit of the curtain aside, and my vision is assaulted by the golden torchlight that has seemed muted for long hours. I blink and step out, dropping my head as I reenter the world of eyes and attention.

"This way," he speaks softly, leading me towards the shadows at the back of the gallery, away from the noise that billows up at the balcony's edge. I hear the swish of cloaks behind us and then the clatter of two more guards flanking me.

It is not the situation I desired, but it is expected _. If_ _I cannot lead them, then I must suggest our path._ The knight turns left at the entryway, and I feel I know which privy he means to lead me towards, a mere three doors down the corridor. But that is not far enough away for what I intend.

"Ser, can we go to my chamber, please? There are things I need there… that the maester left for my use."

The knight has stopped in the hall, his face in profile as he listens, a pink flush rising at my words. When he does not respond it is a guard behind us that answers my plea, gruffness taking over the leading man's uncertainty.

"The quicker you move, the quicker it's done, Buckler. Get on with it."

"Yes… right." Struggles the knight called Buckler. He turns us around, heading down the empty high hall.

Torches gutter along the walls, making me wonder at the hour. It has been days since I've seen the outer world, and even though I'm sure it remains cloudy and snow-laden, it is an eerie thing to be denied all view of the natural passage of time. I think I would not fare well in the oppressive darkness of the dungeons. _You may find yourself there soon enough_ , reason worries. _You should not deny the king his wishes, no matter how egregious they are._

But I have little if nothing else to lose. _What more can they possibly take from me?_

We pass through the last portion of the upper hall and then descend stairs, our lead knight, Buckler, ordering us to halt as he skirts ahead to check the way below. He pokes his head back up the stairwell, silently beckoning us with a hand. As I take the last steps I hear the volume of the crowd ahead, responding loudly to more charges or sentencing. We veer quickly right into a slim passage, and I begin to understand the path intended, believing my room to only be a few corridors away. Somehow we avoid interruption, the noise of the court fading behind us.

Another turn finds us in a hall of soldier's quarters, the doors closely spaced and reeking from the contents within. I'm sure we will soon be upon my own room, so I gather my wits for the remainder of my plan. It will be easy to bar my door, but keeping the way sealed for a reasonable length of time may prove more difficult. I watch the sword swaying at Buckler's hip, knowing it can readily hack through lumber.

We turn again, and I nearly run into Buckler's crimson back. He has stopped so abruptly, one hand flying to his scabbard, the other reaching back to halt my progress. One of my other guards has come up beside him, and I can no longer see what lies ahead.

"So she lives! My beautiful, dutiful wife, how _pleased_ I am to see you alive and well. Have you missed me?"

 _That voice…_

I recoil immediately, staggering back into the breast plate of my remaining guard. An arm supports me, but I am already crumpling, feeling the need to drop to the floor, to submit and be quiet… Everything fades. The reality which has surrounded me the past two days evaporates, as if I have woken from a dream.

All I know is what I _must_ do and what I am expected to be.

"Oh come now, _Sers_. You would not deny a man a reunion with his wife?" The oily, too-happy words of my Lord husband echo up the hall.

"We'd deny you a tongue right now, _bastard_ , if the king didn't demand you whole for sentencing. Get him out of our way, boys – back up the hall!"

I am unsure who has spoken, but the man is in front of me. _As long as these knights stay in front of me… Please shield me._

Shuffling, scuffling, and the rattle of chains fill my ears. A dull thud sounds as something hard hits something less solid, and then a deep groan follows. My attention is completely fixed on the events I cannot see. _Eyes down, do not move._ I hope they have struck him in the mouth. Ramsay might not dare speak again if they have struck him well…

But I would be a fool to believe Ramsay Snow is afraid of further punishment. He has invented punishments; pain yields under his hand. It does not control him.

He spits thickly, wheezing for a moment, and I wonder if there is blood. I could perhaps bring myself to look upon his blood... But then there is movement again, and I can tell he is being dragged away, back down the corridor from which he must have been led. His chains and shackles tinkle, almost bell-like.

"She's _mine_ , you filthy cowards… I will flay you from head to heel for _touching_ her. The bitch of Winterfell is _mine_!" He yells.

 _There is the Ramsay I have come to know_ , I shudder. His own layers peeled back to reveal the putrid, shriveled makings of his soul.

"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell _never_ belonged to you, bastard! His Grace will proclaim it before the day is done, though I'd wager you won't be alive to hear the proclamation." These words are hard and loud and jagged, somehow coming from the throat of the soft-voiced Buckler.

My mind stutters, comprehension dawning and then waning as I consider. _Stannis means to annul my marriage to Ramsay, as if it never even existed?_ The idea is preposterous beyond reason because it defies the laws of gods and men.

So many bore witness to our union, and even more were made aware through raven. The occupants of the castle were often treated to Ramsay's lewd and loud retelling of our joining. And as if there was any actual need to silence further speculation, the evidence of our marriage's horrific consummation was displayed in Winterfell's yard the morning following the wedding, my bloodied night sheets waving from the battlements like the sigil of a dying woman's house.

 _Stannis cannot erase those events. A king's word cannot wipe away what was done to me._

The hand that has supported me squeezes my arm, and I realize words have been spoken. They buzz in my ears, muffled and unintelligible for a moment.

"Please, Lady Stark. He is gone now and we must move on."

"Yes…" I somehow respond, letting myself be lifted from the flagstone floor. I have been crouching, though I was not aware of it until now.

Our progress begins anew, and another wash of panic overwhelms me as we move in the same direction as Ramsay. My plans fall away; my desire to deny Stannis the power of my name vanishes.

"Wait," I gasp.

"My Lady…" The gruff guard says, his voice almost a warning now.

"Please," I insist despite the absurdity of my new thoughts. It would be much better for me to stay the course; to challenge Stannis with my angry dismissal. To show the North that a southron king will never rule the Starks. Instead I plead, "Take me back to the gallery."

Someone sighs out a huffing gust of air, and I know there is displeasure behind the action. I have created trouble, even though the confrontation with my bastard Lord husband was wholly unintentional. I did not mean to create turmoil until I entered my room.

"We'll do as the Lady wishes," Butler speaks, more to his companions than me. I think there is some measure of relief in this voice.

We move through darkening halls again, past the raucous cries of court attendants and guarded entryways. Up more steps, and then we are out on the ledge of the balcony once more. The witness box almost seems a safe refuge when I look upon it, and I move eagerly between the open curtains. Shadows shroud me, and the court room comes back into view as I sit.

The crowds have thinned in my absence, the stretching line of prisoners much shorter. _How long was I truly gone?_ It felt too short a time to have allowed so many judgments. But as I watch I begin to understand. Stannis has expedited the sentencing process, grouping men with like charges together, giving those of lesser birth little chance to defend themselves. He hardly seems to see them now, his hollow gaze often darting away from the kneelers to settle on the hall's far entryway. The attendants seem to share his impatience, their attention straying towards the doors as well.

 _Something or someone is expected._

I know who it must be, though I cannot bring myself to share in the eager, hungry glances the Great Hall has granted him. How could I ever _wish_ to see Ramsay again? His possessive words still slither over my skin, the exchange in the corridor becoming another branded memory for me to carry. I will _never_ shake him free, I am sure.

 _But I can have some part in his fate, Stannis-granted or not._ I may have been scared away from my decision to shun the king's commands, but perhaps it was all for the better. My father and mother did not hide from the derision and scheming of Lannister enemies. Robb never allowed himself to be marked as incapable; he nearly united the entire North behind his banners. Even Arya, the slightest and smallest of our family, would quickly fight anyone who dared to slight her.

It is difficult to pull on the mantle of Stark. It feels too foreign and too distant. I know I cannot ever be Sansa again, not in truth… But these people believe that I _am_ her. They are foolish to see me that way, but it is still what they seem to believe, calling me _'my Lady'_ with an easiness that speaks of their ready confidence. Perhaps I do not need faith in myself at all. I simply need to fool the Baratheon mob and that may prove enough to retain my family's legacy.

 _For mother and father, and my brothers and sister_ , I decide, tears welling in my eyes. There is some joy in the thought of pleasing them, in imagining their ghostly smiles.

I watch the profession of prisoners dwindle to five, then a mere two. The last man, so filthy and quiet to draw any real concern, is pulled from the hall almost as quickly as he drops down before Stannis. The far entryway doors creak open slowly after he has left, a new measure of quiet descending over the crowd as Ramsay Snow and his Lord father, Roose Bolton are both shoved towards the center of the Great Hall.

I drink them in, unafraid for the moment behind my screen. Someone has gagged Ramsay. A wad of white and reddened cloth is stuffed in his mouth and he chuffs around it, dripping blood and saliva down his chin. _So they made him bleed after all…_ His exterior finally matches his crazed, pale eyes. Filth and splotches of blood crust his doublet and pants. I am not surprised that Roose appears largely unmolested and clean. He always made himself seem above outlandish behavior, or any tangible ounce of emotion for that matter. Unlike his bastard son, he has probably been compliant with his captors.

The poor royal steward, now hours into his duties, sounds as if he has saved most of his strength for this end.

"Roose Bolton, Lord of House Bolton, and former liege lord to the late Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, you stand charged of crimes _most_ grievous. Your bastard son, Ramsay Snow, whom you wish to speak for on this day is also accused of deed most foul. Do you still wish to answer for both of your crimes?"

Roose Bolton dips his head in agreement, though Ramsay shakes his own wildly, as if trying to loosen the gag which silences him. It is almost laughable, how starkly they contrast each other while chained: one as calm as death; the other seeming to be rage incarnate.

"Very well." The steward continues, ignoring Ramsay's obvious objections. "Lord Bolton, it has been witnessed that under your command several hundred northern loyalists were tortured, raped, and killed without due cause, either in your charge as prisoners or when staying as guests under another's house. While treating with houses Frey and Stark at The Twins, you are accused of conspiring to execute Lord Robb Stark and his Lady mother, Catelyn Stark, and witnesses mark you as the man to stab Robb Stark in the heart. Further evidence suggests you have long been in league with house Lannister, deliberately allowing the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, to reclaim his freedom, and to give his Lord father, Tywin Lannister, the means and information to counter northern armies. For these crimes and betrayals, and those others only the Lord of Light can know, how do you plead?"

"Guilty, of course. And quite proudly." Such a haunting, quiet voice Roose Bolton has. No hesitation, only flat, blatant certainty. I can imagine him killing his entire house and not batting an eye.

"You accept all charges as true, before the sight of his Grace, Stannis Baratheon?"

"I accept the measure of my supposed crimes, yes, though I find the figure _several hundred_ grossly inaccurate. Perhaps several _thousand_ would better suit. And I do not recognize Stannis Baratheon as a king, whether here or anywhere else in the seven kingdoms. What are my son's charges?"

 _How can he be so cavalier with his fate?_ I wonder, examining the man who executed Robb. How can anyone face their death with mockery and cool acceptance? And no evidence _whatsoever_ of contrition? I itch to _hurt_ this man, to see him pay at long last. I hope he is made to feel something before the day is done.

The steward seems unperturbed, even though the rest of the hall echoes my frustration.

"Your bastard-born son, Ramsay Snow, who is henceforth stripped of all lands, claims and lordships unjustly bequeathed unto him, including his marriage rights to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, is charged with the following crimes: the unprovoked and unwarranted killings and tortures of _numerous_ prisoners who were here throughout the duration of his control of Winterfell, the mutilation and torture of the hostage Theon Greyjoy, the undue slaughter of the surrendering Greyjoy men who held Moat Cailin, and claiming Sansa Stark as his wife without the consent of her house or true Lord protectorate. For these charges, how do you plead for your son?"

"Guilty again, though these sound the actions of a conquering man." There is finally a flicker of something in Roose Bolton's voice, though his volume stays low and measured. "The Realms of Men were built upon such crimes; the oppressed and defeated meant to suffer under the hands of the strong. The last of my house will be executed on this day by another conqueror, and yet the pretense of royal justice will be used to cover our blood. No matter the means, the ends are always the same."

"The _way_ in which I conquer is beyond reproach! Your bloody _methods_..." Stannis growls, rising from his chair. "You Bolton's have flayed and butchered your last!"

"Perhaps," answers Roose quietly, "Though I still fail to see the difference between the sharpness of my family's blades, and the heat of your priestess' fires."

"You'll learn it in hell, or see it in my _flames_." The king barks back, stepping down from the dais, coming closer to the man he loathes. For a moment I wonder if he means to dispatch him right here and now, on the steps for all to see. His knights seem to think the same, giving their king a wide birth as he descends.

Stannis stands above Roose, much taller on his higher step. His hands remain clenched at his sides, giving no indication that he means to draw upon his flaming sword.

"Roose Bolton, I find you and your bastard guilty as charged and sentence you both to immediate execution."

Appreciative shouts rise from the court, the noise building quickly to echo off the high rafters. Stannis looks up abruptly, his wild, furious gaze settling on my witness box. I feel suddenly _scorched_ by that gaze, as if the accusation and hatred previously thrust upon Roose Bolton has now been cast upon me.

"I leave the _manner_ of your death," Stannis shouts above the din, waiting until the hall quiets once more. "in the hands of the northern witnesses you have betrayed."

That hard, indecipherable face has somehow seemed to find my own through the curtain shield, pinning me and holding me captive. Apprehension and confusion fill me. This is not what I anticipated at all – I have convinced myself that I would _not_ be used in such a way, that Stannis does not care at all for my opinions.

 _Why is he asking me…_ no, more importantly, I worry, _what_ is he truly asking of me?

I pick up my speaking stone, hoping the king will prompt me in some way. I can answer questions. That is a simple task, just a few quick raps and I can speak a yes or no.

But Stannis doesn't prompt, he just stares, and the weight of the entire courtroom shifts heavily towards me as well. They are all waiting on me for something I feel unable to supply. Even Roose and Ramsay, with those terrible pale eyes, accost me.

I shift in my seat under the strain and hear Buckler whisper through the fabrics, "Come, my Lady, it is time."

 _Time for what?_ Panic rips through my mind… The red priestess _promised_ me, said I could bear witness without my voice or face!

When I don't rise, the curtains begin to part around me, my protection vanishing in a wash of bright light and cool air. I have been exposed by the men meant to guard me; put on display for a crowd of strangers. The attention I so desperately craved as a little girl has now been cruelly thrust upon me. I gasp a little, willing myself to stay seated, making myself sit still and keep my eyes vaguely focused on Stannis Baratheon.

 _He planned this… he anticipated my hesitation. He is manipulative and pitiless._

"Lady Sansa Stark, of house Winterfell," Stannis finally speaks, the crowd murmuring at his words and seeming to stare at me with fresh eyes. "How should we execute the man who killed your brother, and the bastard who took you for his own?"

I fumble with my thoughts, fearing that I will supply an insufficient answer. The crowd ripples with talk and suggestion, some voices becoming loud enough to hear. They want me to request horrible tortures and slow deaths, most voices calling for flayings or burnings. _Give 'em what they love! Peel 'em!_ someone shouts. Another argues, _No, let them burn for the Lord of Light!_ One man cries out for punishments by slow dismemberment, a death I dare not even begin to imagine...

 _Perhaps that is what I should choose then, since it sounds so terrible?_ They deserve to suffer unspeakable horrors.

 _What would Stannis want you to request?_ The desperate, dutiful part of me longs to know. But that's not right either, my thoughts immediately counter. _You do not care what this man wants. The fates of Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow are yours to decide, not his._

And it falls upon me then, softly and gently and with an assurance I know must have be sent from some higher place.

 _What would father and mother want?_

My voice seems not my own, coming out stronger and much louder than I ever believed possible.

"Flaying was outlawed by my father… and fire was used to desecrate the bodies of my brothers…"

I suck in a deep breath, hoping to relay the importance of my plea to the man who will either deny or grant my wish. It is hard to believe he will help me, but I know I must try. I force my eyes to meet those of Stannis Baratheon.

"The Lords of Winterfell have always punished men themselves: swiftly and by the sword. I request that you take their heads, your Grace, by the power of your own sword and hand."

* * *

 **A/N:** I won't spoil the show for anyone who hasn't seen last week's episode, but I will say this much: finishing this chapter was _hard_ after Sunday night. Show-Stannis is traveling down a path I would have never believed possible (relative to his previous character-to-character moments)... but I suppose that's GRRM for ya. Everything goes. Still, I had so much hope for his cause... and now, yet again, I can't pull myself back from mourning the loss of another ficitional character.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

* * *

A more savage man, like those from my past, would have made a holiday out of this bloodshed.

It is easy to imagine the extravagances Joffrey would have joyfully conjured at the prospect of such an event: the savory courses and wines he would have ordered to be passed and poured without end; the jovial, interluding performances of powdered mummers and fools; the sumptuous velvet seating, angled towards a center of turmoil; the retinue of mandatory lords and ladies, most of them contrite but many just as eager to witness horror against a backdrop of elegance. The decadence of comfort and ease, all perfectly aligned for the sole purpose of watching men die.

This is not that gilded vision, thank the accursed gods. _Joffrey is long dead_ , I remind myself for what feels like the hundredth time.

This reality however, this flaming, bitter-cold display that Stannis Baratheon has conjured, is somehow worse.

The world is tinged orange, even as we march into the darkest hours of night. Icicles and snow drifts weep where pyres have been set too close. The castle walls are all aglow, the icy facades reflecting the surrounding turmoil back like huge, warped looking glasses. I am sure the fat snowflakes floating from the sky measure far too few to ever quench so many fires.

As loathe as I am to yearn for such a place as Kings Landing, even if only in a passing, desperate way, it is impossible to deny the lack of pageantry here. There is no music or singers to buffet the screams. Nowhere to divert one's attention to momentarily, or at the very least, to safely turn one's eyes.

Even the ground, all snow-laden and pristine as winter silk, now betrays the proceedings. Flecks of ash and fiery debris have come to pepper the ground at my feet. When I tilt my head up just a bit, towards the hastily constructed gallows platform and beheading block, I can see red blemishes against the white.

This is a dark and dismal affair, becoming more burden than blessing by the hour.

 _Death is everywhere. But not Ramsay's. Not yet._

I understand now that Stannis Baratheon has explicitly ordered these difficulties; that he intends his followers to closely experience the price of unlawful violence. It also seems a test of fortitude. Many an onlooker accosts and spits venom at the convicted men, though I have also caught harrowed, dismayed looks throughout the yard. Men on the verge of sickness with averted eyes, looking as equally unprepared as I. Sometimes I catch His Grace examining them shrewdly, as if marking the weakest amongst his herd.

His face gives little else away, however, whenever I glance up at him standing beside me. No flickering doubt or fear, even as I consider that he must feel _something_. Watching men burn alive is far worse than father warned – more a full body experience than a sight to behold. There is a stink, of smoke and metal and meat, that cannot be escaped no matter how hard I try to breathe through my mouth.

Light and shadow dance strangely across the King's focused profile, when I peak up at him again, sometimes smoothing out his features but more often drawing attention to the clench at this bearded jaw and the craggy cliff which has become his brow. Whether he believes allowing the priestess her fanaticism will garner fear from his subjects or will instead revitalize them with some misplaced sense of validation for the god they have chosen, I have yet to decide. I am certain, however, that he is taking no pleasure from these proceedings.

I chance a quicker glance up at Ramsay, bound and chained atop the execution platform beside his bored-looking father. Pleasure in pain is perhaps the expression I am most adept at recognizing now, though it is absent in my bastard Lord husband. Our eyes meet again, as they have earlier this evening in the corridor, and I fight the urge to recoil – to step back and cower and mumble out apologies without end. For the _fury_ in his icy gaze is near blinding. I remain the outlet he seeks to pain, even now, so close to his end.

 _Soon, please be over soon. The King promised. He said this would end, before the night is out._

Another man's wail billows skyward on a gust, twisting up like a wind-whirl. Cheers and chides follow. A new patch of orange glows off the snow to the right of my boot – another pyre alighting. I close my eyes, tucking my chin further into my hood.

 _Executions turned to sacrifice. Winterfell is still aflame._

Their fire god is greedy, just as she is greedy. I can see it whenever I look towards the Red Woman; in the almost rapturous way she tilts her head back as she chants. Her figure moves between the pyres which spiral outwards from us. _She_ is enjoying herself, I am certain. Her tongue has turned thick and guttural, her foreign words somehow rising louder above the screams, the choker at her neck reflecting the flames back brightly.

The mystery and allure of her is undeniable, but in the way that I imagine a dragon would seem dazzling. A terrible beauty for men to gape at and covet; a danger which can never truly be mastered, even as men talk themselves into trying.

 _Is this how she drew the King into her religion, with the woman's weapon Cersei made sure to crudely remind me of, time and time again?_

The dutiful severity of Stannis Baratheon disregards the inkling. He does not seem a man vulnerable to seduction or distraction. _He has a wife and child, at the wall with Jon. Ser Davos mentioned them._

Even so, I watch the priestess for a moment longer, trying to decide if her usefulness extends any further than the console and knowledge she provides the King. The whirling, gracefully movement of her hair and robe matches the dance of her flames so well. She circles a pyre and sings, the fire appearing to climb higher with her encouragement. I examine His Grace in turn, searching with sidelong looks under my hood. But he seems intent on the four men who have unnaturally disappeared amidst smoke and flame, as if wholly consumed.

 _Perhaps she is a dragon._

It is a marvel my fire-flung shadow appears so still. The heavy furs I've donned must help hide my shaking.

"It will not be long now." The King says quietly, taking me by surprise.

I jerk my head down, afraid he has caught me staring. It is a movement which I am sure cannot go without notice.

"You'll have your _justice_."

His tone turns begrudging at the end, as if he believes I am some petulant, impatient child in need of a reprimand. Yet I have said nothing to the man since being escorted beside him, even as the night has progressed slowly, with little end in sight and no other company in close proximity. He has made certain we appear a united force, Baratheon and Stark, both standing at the center of this turmoil.

 _I have made no mention of Ramsay or his Lord father's delayed executions, nor have I chastised him for using me so cruelly in the Great Hall._

The displeasure of being shoved unwillingly before a crowd of onlookers still pricks my conscience. I have long ago abandoned the speaking stone, dropping it as I was guided outdoors though I wished to hurl it. Never meant to be empowering or conciliatory – as Ser Davos and the Priestess were adamant to make me believe before their King – the manipulation which led me here is too apparent now, like a potential scene Petyr Baelish might have tested me with in private.

 _Where will this decision take you, sweetling? Always you must ask yourself this, while plotting your courses._

I can hear Littlefinger whispering the words, his own self-possessed agenda winding through the subtly of the game he liked to play, acting the teacher while actually meaning to master my own destiny. I somehow feel as if I have failed him, even as it is _he_ who has irrevocably failed me. If Lord Baelish ever slinks back to this castle, to collect the small force he deployed from the Vale, I like to believe I will have the fortitude to dismiss him forever.

But no matter how many scars I may now carry from the trials of Ramsay, thoughts and words are still so separate for me. It feels far safer to keep stores of unsaid things within. I could surely write a long volume of unsaid things.

There is no denying, however, that a spark of gratitude has been building within me since His Grace nodded his grave acceptance – when he allowed my request to have my current tormentor sentenced to death by beheading. Of that long-awaited potential, I am able to readily conjure some regard for the man, even as I am confident the gesture is just a political move meant to garner more northern allegiance.

 _Ramsay will be gone regardless, and can you truly blame him? He'll be pressed to find ready allies in the north, since father's death and Robb's failed campaign. Not without support from a strong, northern ally._

"It is time. You are aware of the custom?" Stannis Baratheon asks brusquely, startling me from thought. He has so little subtlety, as if speaking out loud is some great labor. Perhaps he feels as if words are wasted on me. I have exchanged so few with him since our first meeting.

 _The custom? Is there more to a beheading than saying last rites and swinging the sword?_

"Well?" He prompts, the impatience in his tone making me all the more nervous.

I chance a hood-hidden glance at his armored torso, still turned towards the platform, but it is the gloved hand which now rests on the pommel of his sword which hitches my breath. The sword that men have sworn to have witnessed aflame; Lightbringer reborn, the Queen's men proclaim.

 _Is he threatening me?_ Something akin to indignation flares deep down, despite my instinct to keep quiet. The emotion is too close to the affront that the Sansa Stark of old may have felt.

The slither of steel, a crisp, ringing sound, tells me he has unsheathed it. I can feel him facing me now, leather and mail creaking as he turns. Warning me, testing me, _taunting_ me? I cannot decide.

I realize now that the courtyard noises have dimmed around us. The fires burn on and the moans and wails persist, but the circular crowd has hushed. Even the Red Woman's chanting has disappeared. Again, I feel the weight of attention upon me as I stare at my boots. I cannot bear it.

 _No, not again. Not so soon._

"So brave before," the King murmurs, not unkindly but still with a measure of roughness, "And now _this_ again, Lady Stark?"

It is the first time he has privately addressed me by my family name, though there is marked hesitation on the moniker. As if he is still unsure himself or, more likely, that he is loath to admit the rightful heir to Winterfell is just a meek and near-mute girl.

"No, Your Grace. I do not know." I whisper, afraid of disappointing this man with my ignorance.

Yet pretending to know is not an option, as I have never witnessed a proper northern execution. Father disobeyed his girls from ever attending and our brothers kept the rites amongst themselves, hushing and scolding Arya whenever she tried to pry the gory details from them.

There is a deep exhale, the King rustling closer until his boots are facing my own. The blade – his wicked blade which may be tainted with dark magic – floats up between us. It gleams queerly, redly, almost like father's Valerian great sword would whenever he polished it before the hearth.

 _It isn't aflame though,_ I exhale, grateful to find this story a mere exaggeration. It's surface, however, is like metal turned to water, shifting and rippling enough to make me question if it is a solid thing at all. I am so mesmerized by the deadly instrument before me, I momentarily forget my anxiety.

"Grasp where I hold," he instructs, lifting the blade lightly.

His gloved hands rest on the grip and at the middle of the strange steel.

 _Over his own hands?_ I wonder, suddenly apprehensive, feeling all the more a fool. _A northerner, who should by rights be the Lady of her great House, and I am unaware of our own ceremonies?_

"You must willingly accept it, Lady Stark," he grates low, clearly displeased by my hesitation. "It is your blessing that is required, not your _fear_."

The reminder of the fake façade we are presenting, of another man deigning to use my title for his own benefit, spurs something within me. His ridicule stings as well, even though it is well-marked. For I _am_ also afraid.

My hands barely shake, as they come under the King's own, his fingers hard like cold stone. They soften only when mine cup his, sliding out and away from view. I am left to palm the mesmerizing blade alone. I've rarely held a sword, I realize, and just as quickly I decide I _enjoy_ the feeling – the small thrill of possessing power, even if I lack the faintest skill to wield it.

"Seal their fates with a kiss and it is done."

My eyes widen then, courage blowing away with the wind, my head tilting up, attention darting to the King's face.

 _Does he mean? No. No, he cannot..._

 _His intent cannot be for me to kiss him_ , I decide quickly, a jolt of panic running through me all the same.

Kissing remains another venture I have no knowledge of, though that is a lesser fear entirely. And besides, such a forward, unusual custom would have surely been taught to me at some point. Septa Mordane would have expounded upon it liberally, bestowing another Lady's burden on my ever-expanding duties with a combination of eagerness and whip-like severity. Not even in the moments before her death, when she ordered me to run, did the woman drop the pretense of teaching.

I draw back from the distant, chilling memory, anchoring myself to the present. For the more likely alternative to the King's meaning is just as difficult to contemplate.

 _It cannot be our way. Not as Joffrey asked me to, before the battle of Blackwater Bay._

It feels like another cruel insult, as if Stannis Baratheon has somehow dug into my past and wishes me to relive a long-suppressed terror. The moment Joffrey ordered me to kiss his new blade, Widow's Wail – that maligned, Lannister-forged remnant of father's own solemn sword – had felt akin to tasting father's blood and beckoning my own demise. I had been so sure Joffrey would behead me himself, as I dipped low and pressed quaking lips to metal.

I had believed the hasty moment to be a personal torment he had devised himself, not a _tradition_.

There is none of Joffrey's heated excitement in the King before me now, only impatient focus, and in some way this is calming. I can manage another's distance and derision.

His granite-blue gaze measures my stance and greater appearance as if judging a horse at market, before he finally settles his attention on my shadowed face, prompting me with a silent nod. If not for the hundreds of onlookers, such a steady head-to-toe assessment would almost feel inappropriate. But there is none of that sort of impropriety in this man, this self-proclaimed King. He's ice and stone and rumors of sorcery: the Wall made flesh.

I pull my shoulders back taunt under that gaze, the blade in my grip feeling heavier somehow. A breath steams from me, misting the air.

 _If you are to do this,_ an older part of me whispers, _do not cower. Do it properly. Make father and mother proud._

With eyes on His Grace alone, for I fear I cannot manage this forgery of strength if I glance at Ramsay, I raise the strange sword higher, as if in a toast.

I expect my lips to pucker, to feel the freezing bite of metal, but I am surprised by warmth. Like a tingling, unnerving caress. _Dark magic, after all._

I lower the weapon quickly, though I'm somehow hesitant to unhand it. The King reaches to reclaim it all the same, black gloves shifting deftly under my own. His narrowed gaze slides to my mouth, if only for a moment, and then he lifts the sword away, separating me from the rest of the ceremony. I watch him turn, the blade slicing through air as he resheaths it.

 _How does a man so cold and distant manage to surround himself with heat and flame?_ I wonder vaguely, careful to track his stiff progress from under the protection of my hood. He ascends the platform with what appears to be deliberate slowness, coming to loom over Roose Bolton. A large fire dances behind the pair, setting them aglow like candle wax.

His Grace looks down upon his kneeling prisoner with the tightened reserve I have come to recognize as his displeasure. But the Lord of Bolton being brought low is not the sight of humiliation and despair I have long wished for. He does not cower, does not beg. He has somehow maintained a cool indifference throughout the whole of these proceedings, his attention vague, appearing far away from the slow, fiery consumption of his men and House. Even now, he stares up at Stannis Baratheon with that same crystalline, unflinching gaze.

 _He will somehow die with the honor of displaying bravery at his end_ , I realize, and my gut twists. The betrayer who led Robb and mother to their dooms should be apologetic and pleading, not _indifferent_. I ball my fists, seeing now that the cruel closure l seek will never come to pass.

 _You should have chosen more brutal deaths for them_ , bitterness argues, even as I know I have done well by my own House and family. A swift beheading is humane; a sentence father would have solemnly agreed upon himself, I am certain.

A lesser man might be unnerved by the disquiet of Roose Bolton, but Stannis Baratheon is apparently not that man. He nods to the guards flanking Roose, and they haul him to the glistening beheading block, forcing him to kneel before pressing his neck into the bloodstained crescent.

 _Do not look away_ , I chant in my mind, trying to drown the moment that is rising up from my past. That black, twisted moment which now feels like a warped mirror to this present. It is far too horrible to ever erase from memory, even as I have tried and tried and tried.

 _He's_ not _father. This is not that day. This is your family's redemption._

The fluttering of unease grows in my belly, and I am surprised to discover I am truly more afraid of looking away than I am of staring. To hide from this feels a betrayal in itself; a distancing from the death I have requested – no matter how minor my role has truly been in its orchestration.

 _You must watch. You must watch Roose Bolton die._

The snows seem to slow, the noise of a hundred ready breaths fading as well. I force my chin to lift.

There is a magnification of focus, my surroundings sharpening and narrowing: the whisper of wool against wet leathers and mail; the star-like gleam of snowflakes in His Grace's hair and shoulders, the slow, silent appearance of the Red Woman behind him; the haunting, high-pitched whine of his sword as he unsheathes it.

The gust of warm air which buffets my face as the blade _alights,_ brilliant and terrifying.

"Any last words?" The King asks.

Roose Bolton's head turns on the block, a smear of red painting his neck. I cannot see his expression, but there is no shift in his flat tone, as he faces the weapon meant to destroy him.

"May you one day burn within your own fires."

From anyone else it might seem a prayer or a promise, but Roose Bolton has never followed the gods.

Without preamble or hesitation, Stannis Baratheon bids the fiery blade to cut through night and snowfall and then flesh. A searing sound; a spray of red; a heavy thunk; the twitching flail of a body separated from life.

 _He is dead._

I make my quivering gaze remain. Make myself watch the slick puddle of blood that forms around Roose Bolton's head. Make myself ignore everything and everyone else but the corpse above me.

 _It is done, mother and Robb. It is done._ _He cannot hurt us any longer._

Somewhere distant there is movement. There are cheers. The thrumming, riotous swell of the crowd seems a fire itself, so irregular and changeable. The crescendo of noise puts the full-scope of the world back into focus finally.

 _Now Ramsay_ , I urge the King silently, grateful and readied and steadied by the reality before me, my pulse all but a gallop.

But there is to be a delay, a sick celebration of sorts. The Red Woman is the one to lift Roose's head, raising the contorted visage for all to see and jeer at, her own face like a solemn victory. Carved and carefully crafted. Almost as if this moment is somehow _her_ victory, and the crowd is solely hers.

The sight fills me with sudden scorn. _This moment is mine and my family's, witch._

As if in answer, her red gaze finds my own, her lips curving slightly. She nods gravely, reverently towards me, and it is clear she means to acknowledge my part – that she has somehow _heard_ my silent ridicule and finds it amusing. But her heat and powers are not enough to hold me from this distance, or else she is simply not trying, as she has before. The latter is the worse to contemplate, is the alternative I shudder at.

"Your Grace!"

The voice buffets over the celebration, urgent and in motion. I look to find Ser Davos pushing through the mob and then quickly ascending the platform, ignoring the mess of Roose Bolton entirely.

 _Where has he been?_ I cannot remember seeing him outside tonight, or anywhere else throughout the trials for that matter.

A quiet, private moment passes between the advisor and his King, the priestess still conducting her gruesome pageantry for the reveling crowd. The softening of His Grace's face, the way his line-drawn lips part for just a moment as Davos expounds upon his news, tells me he is surprised. Dismayed even, by the distant glaze which washes over his usually sharp eyes.

He raises a hand to his advisor, a request for silence, and then his attention is darting over the platform. Over Roose's crumpled body. Searching, deciding, calculating.

Assessing the flaming sword in his grasp before facing his followers, Stannis Baratheon announces fiercely.

"The remaining execution is postponed. Prepare your horses and arms. We ride north tonight!"


End file.
